Confessions of Deception
by corpusincindio
Summary: A Really, Really, Really Hard Way to Find a Husband
1. Chapter One

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Chapter One: Resolve 

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October Tenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five

The first entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore , the age of Fifteen 

I received this from my dear friend Abbie and as of late I have felt- why not use it? Where's the harm, (as if father would care what I wrote anyway)? So I shall call you friend. Here at Ashwood Manor in Devonshire, the world slowly glides by as if it had no cares at all, unlike what I have heard from friends in London about this pending war with France and the nations financial troubles that seem to double by the year, they say. But all father can seem to think of is how and who to marry me off to. He has no care of either of our welfare's, for he has spent every last penny on some disastrous endeavor or another. And since he no longer has a son to dote on just a DAUGHTER, he blames me. I know he no longer cares about feelings, but only for his monetary concerns. I hear his voice from the great room. I must go for I know he has been to drink even at this early hour. And a man drunk is much worse than a man sober. Even my father. If I don't go he will seek me out and, that is worse, much worse. So I end this here, dear friend. 

Yours Truly,

Elizabeth Seymore

October Thirteenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five

Second Entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore 

Dear Friend, 

I am sorry that I have not written for the past two night. Writing has now become an effort of mine. The doctor tells me that my wrist will heal, but not to overly use it, so writing has been off the list till now. I wish I had the courage to tell the good doctor what occurred, as this the third time he hath cared for it. I wish I could gather some flimsy piece of it and set him right. Instead, I hear his response and sigh, "Elizabeth you must stay away from trees. Your wrist cannot properly function if it is broken." But too much of a coward am I, to declaim the actions of my father. In one notion of his I do agree...in the weakness of a woman. Only in this, friend can I envelope the true character of my father. 

Today he hath told me I must marry, and marry who pleases him, which I adamantly refuse to do but he does not hear me but advanced on me a in beet red rage. He tells me I am horrible, despicable, uncanny, ugly and a liar, all the while standing over me, force-feeding it down my throat. He raised his hand and shoved my face into the peeled varnish of the oak table. I don't think I have ever cried so much in my life. I don't remember how many times he hit me or when he grabbed my wrist and slammed it into the table, but I was alert enough to hear him. He yelled at me the whole time, 'You will do as you are told, you disagreeable wench! I hope Mr. Windham had some sense to use the cane.' Yet even here, sniveling and cowering in the dark of my father's wrath, I am convinced to rebel and keep to my own resolutions. I will not marry Mr. Windham, a man four time my age, white haired and detestable. He does not care for me, only for my father's land and his sight is ailing as well as his sanity. He deserves the blindness, I am sure of that. For I have heard how he beat and hurt every one of his four wives. I resolve not to be his fifth, death take me first. Oh,...dear friend, what do I do? I have no Oliver; he died last summer of typhoid aided by his sickness. I miss him so! I also have no Abbie for she is visiting a cousin in London. But I will stick to my resolve, though I know not how. I will not marry Mr. Windham. I will not let my jealous father's eyes shine in a profit well made. No father, I resolve, I will not do your bidding anymore. Goodnight, dear friend.

Yours Truly, 

Elizabeth Seymore 

October Fifteenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five

Third Entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore 

Dear Friend, 

I have resolved to resolve my resolve not follow my father's orders and marry Mr. Windham, the old crotchity man who lives a mile west of the manor. For **this** wretched place is not mine and never will be. Oh dear friend, I cannot go on like this any longer, a ruse to my true feelings. My mind, spirit, and conscience wont let me. Mr. Windham came last night to pay a visit, and when my father had gone to get another bottle of cognac, Mr. Windham made unsavory and ungentelmanly advances towards me and I was almost forced to burn his dirty hands with the candle. He thinks I am already his, but I AM NOT. I have formed a way out, oh, and ingenious way out, one that cannot falter in its course. I will leave and go to London in search of Abbie and her cousin, Miss Lawrence. But, 'how?' you say. Oh, I've thought that up too. I will leave on the mail coach as it passes through Brandburn Wood not far from here, when father is asleep. But I cannot go as I normally would, and have had to call on very interesting resources. I cannot go as a woman, I've decided for that would be impossible for I would be found out. Father will have sent the guards after me and they would have found me out on the coach at Whetlock. No, I will go as a boy. As Oliver's things are still in his stuffy room, and since we were twins I see no reason that they would not fit me and the part I must play. Like Viola, Shakespeare's Viola...oh friend just like her. And as for my hair, my precious golden hair, it must be done away with. It is a price I must pay for this freedom. I have even thought of a new name, since I go as a boy to London, whence I will reveal myself to the right people. I have taken the first name of Oliver, as it is my brother's and the easiest. Many people said we sounded very much alike, and I take my poor mother's maiden name of Whitcomb. It will serve me well, I think. For what I shall bring; I will seek out my father's wallet and take from it a traveling fee and I do have some money of my own. I shall also bring some other precious things. Oh, dear friend, you alone do I confide this in and no one else! Oh, what an adventure this will be! 

Yours Truely, 

Elizabeth Seymore

or should I say, Oliver Whitcomb.

Elizabeth picked up the scissors in her trembling hands and took one last look at herself. This would be the last time she'd see herself as Elizabeth Seymore till she arrived in London. From her flattering golden hair, to her calm olive green eyes, and her large bosom, pale skin and desired hips, she took it all in. She breathed to calm the ferocity of her frantic nerves and raised her hand. One by one, curls of a golden hue fluttered like feathers to the floor. Elizabeth flinched each time, and tears threatened to pour from her eyes. When at last she was done, she stood still and looked at her hair cut haphazardly, some shoulder length, some to the ear, and bound it with a black ribbon in the fashion most men utilizied. Then she proceeded to unlace her dress, stays, and petticoat, letting them fall to the floor. Then she grabbed the linen cloth from the bed and carefully wrapped her chest flat. She gasped as she pulled a little hard. She had no idea this would involve pain. 

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It is all for the best. It will only be a few days at most, maybe a week, no use turning back now, Lizzie. 

Finally, she finished pinning the last of the linen in place and surveyed the clothing on her bed. Underclothes, breeches, a weskit, vest, shirt, jacket, stockings, and buckle shoes, all her brothers. They were the shabbiest she could find, all in assorted greys and browns; she didn't want to stand out. Piece by piece she slipped into her brothers clothing, the undergarments, undershirt, weskit, shirt, and vest. And after slowly pulling on the stockings, buttoning the breeches, tucking her shirt in, and buckling the shoes, the transformation was complete. Looking in the mirror one last time, she saw a paradox. She was no Elizabeth Seymore now. She made a better boy than she'd thought, thirteen or fourteen. And her chest and other parts such as lips and hips did not show evident womanliness. And if she was looked upon for further scrutinizing, at most she'd be labeled emfemmanite. 

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And what's a week, compared to a fortnight, compared to a month, compared to a year, compared to a decade, compared to a century, compared to a millennium, compared to eternity? A week. Bah, a week is nothing but a trifle longer than a day. 

Lizzie turned to fill her knapsack and blow out her candles. She included in her bag her diary, ink, two quills, a book of sonnets by Donne, The Twelfth Night by Shakespeare(it seemed fitting), a book of essays by Locke, her brother's watch, and the things from the kitchen she had spirited away such as the apples, cheese, and bread. She blew out the candles and found her way down the hall, to her father's study to take a handful of coins and cash from his purse. Her father slept hard, as usual, and they employed no staff, so she had no worries of being caught that night. So, for the first time in her life, Elizabeth Seymore fled her home. 


	2. Chapter Two

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Chapter Two: The Coach

It was a cool October's night, as most are in Fall. The moon rose above the world; cold, fruitless, faceless, bright, and silvery white. The path through the Ashwood grounds and Brandburn forest was lit enough to see, but not lit enough to be seen. Elizabeth breathed easier when she was out of sight of the manor. She almost jumped in glee, but kept her spirits inside herself as not to alarm. No longer would she be under her father's thumb, no longer would Elizabeth Seymore be in fear of being forced in to something more than reason accounted for. She entertained herself with fantasies of becoming a pride jewel of London, men of all sorts falling at her feet with roses and lily's, proclaiming their love for her. She even smiled for the first time in months and took in all the smells of the forest in one deep breath. Pine needles, sweet, gingery sap, forest flowers, and wood. The smells of freedom. Never again would she acquaint that word with anything else. She found the coach road easily and pulled out her brother's watch. It was a quarter past ten, and the coach didn't come till a quarter till twelve. Elizabeth curled herself in a ball in the grass on the side of the dirt road, and pillowed by her knapsack she promptly fell asleep. 

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October Sixteenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five

Fourth Entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore

Dear friend, 

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I am now inside a bumpy, moldy coach with two other passengers; middle aged men who are convinced that they need to sit as far away from each other as they can. I apologize for the awful handwriting, but it is nearly impossible to write in these interminable rocky and jerky conditions. So far, I am three hours and forty minutes towards my destination and that much farther from my father. 

The coach found me half asleep by the side of the road. In these past few house since, sleeping in here is impossible, and reading becomes a sickly disorder. I have begun think on my situation and what would happen if my father carted me home. I would not go of course and my friends surely would not make me do something I so adamantly refuse to do. So I am convinced, and I will not be convinced otherwise. Ahh...to be free of my homely and daughterly ties. Dear friend, I wish you knew what it feels like. To take a breath of fresh air not muddled with contempt. Freedom. What a word...to mean so much. 

During my time in the coach I have, for entertainment, made up histories for these two passengers. The one with the expensive coat, cane and hat, he's a rich business man who has just made a sensational deal but had to compromise on the price. And...for the man with the middle class look, his dusty jacket, vest and boots with his hornrimmed glasses, he is the other man's solicitor who isn't happy with his client because he was yelled at for the compromise of price. Oh it's so much fun, friend. I must go now, for I feel nauseous from the bumpy road. 

Yours Truely

Elizabeth Seymore 

regrettably still Oliver Whitcomb (ye gads I hurt everywhere...my chest is no exception)

The cloudy, nondescript sky faded into night quickly and there was no moon or stars this night to dot the sky. It looked stormy, and Elizabeth was weary of it, for stormy weather meant rain, and rain meant mud, and that would put stress on the coach. But she did not worry on it long and tried to sleep. But before she could technically be in dreamland, the coach stopped and the driver called out that they'd be _'stoppin' for th'night at the Inn of the Travelin' Wastrel'_ and that all passengers should take their belongings with them. Elizabeth didn't like the sound of _'Inn of the Travelin' Wastrel'_. She had conveniently forgotten a weapon. No knife, pistol, or dagger did she carry. She was very wary of the Inn, but the thought of a good bed and a hot meal got the better of her. Elizabeth gathered her things and entered the Inn. It was true to its name. Things she'd only heard of in books her father wouldn't let her read came alive in her eyes. She was stunned by it, shocked into displacement. Barmaids and wenches served drunken and half sober men their dinners and ale. Laughter, smoke, and stale liquor filled her nostrils and she stood there taking in it for the first time in her life. 

"Come on dearie, ain't no use gapin'; they'll only make sport o'ye." A lady put a hand on her shoulder and spun her around. She was a large woman, in a somewhat clean grey and yellow dress, with soft golden brown eyes and strawberry blonde hair. 

"Come on, grub'll do you some good." she said softly leading the somewhat dazed Elizabeth towards a table near the kitchen. 

She pushed Elizabeth down into a chair facing the wall and disappeared before Elizabeth could say anything. But the lady was back, pushing a bowl of what looked like beef stew under her nose. Elizabeth scarfed it up greedily. It was warm and filling, and it was food. The taste, frankly, didn't matter at this point. The woman sat down across from her with two mugs of ale. Elizabeth polished off the stew and turned to the ale. She'd never had any before, not a spot of alcohol in her whole life, and she almost choked on it. 

"I know, I know...not much good, but it's all we got." The woman smiled at her. 

Elizabeth hadn't known something could taste so bad, so disgustingly tangy but she gulped it down anyway, knowing it would be the only drink she'd get. She imagined her face looked awful grotesque for the woman looked at her queerly for a moment. 

"You not from around 'ere, are you?" The woman questioned, but it wasn't hard questioning; it was small talk, kind small talk. Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice, in case it gave her away. 

"The name's Jeanne Targuard. So where youse headed? London, oi surpose." 

"I'm Oliver Whitcomb, and aye, London it is." Elizabeth tried to sound as manly as she could, but she feared this woman had already figured her out. 

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My first person and I am already a goner. 

Elizabeth talked for a while with Miss Jeanne. Even in this guise, she had found a friend. She tried to portray a shy youngun' but that didn't fool Miss Jeanne, and by midnight they were laughing and talking as if they'd been old friends. It wasn't as hard to talk, joke, and laugh in her ruse as she had first thought, she just was herself and let it flow. Elizabeth learned that Miss Jeanne was the owner of the _Wastrel_ and had a reputation for not putting up with anything. So things went pretty straightforward, there were no fights or brawls. Miss Jeanne had showed her to a room and got her settled. 

"I like you Oliver, I'sa do." Miss Jeanne smiled and ruffled her hair. "...Even if you are an uncontrollable brat." 

Elizabeth smiled at her slightly, attempting to not look too girlish.

"Well, next time ye 'ere, stop by. Wouldya be a doll and do that?"

"Of course, Miss Jeanne. Wouldn't miss it for the world!", Elizabeth answered, feeling closer to Miss Jeanne than she had to anyone in the past few years. 

"Well, off wit-ya. I'll see ya in the morning!" Miss Jeanne called as she left.

Elizabeth flopped down onto the bed. It wasn't like her feather bed at home, but it was a lot better than the coach, a lot better. Right before she drifted off to sleep, she reminded herself to go down and ask the driver what time they were leaving in the morning. Slowly she sat up and tramped out of the building into the stable area. She saw a figure in the dark near the coach, only oil lamps lighted the stables and it was hard to see. 

"Eh, sir? Driver? Is that you?" Elizabeth called. 

"Well, lookie 'ere Frank. A nicun' popin-jay decided to come en see us." 

Neither of these men were the driver. In the light they both looked gruff, menacing, a beggary sort most would turn away at the door. The man who spoke moved closer and she had a clammy, eerie sort of feeling that Frank was right behind her. She had no weapon on her, and she only guessed what the ruffians were about...this was no..._how-do-ya-do mister_. 

"Boy, wot you doing 'ere?" Asked the first man who spoke. Elizabeth did answer and she didn't think she could. 

"Cat got yer tongue?" Again the first man came closer and gave a low menacing laugh.

Elizabeth, her thoughts and good sense coming back to her, started to panic and tried to find a way out. There was none. The man, Frank, grabbed her from behind, and she let out a smothered scream as the man suffocated her with his dirt smothered hand. The leader of the two came over, smiling, and started to reach into pockets, stripping her jacket from her back and her shoes from her feet. She tried to reach out and claw at them, or do something, but she could and the men laughed at her. The man by now had found her coins and was shifting through the deep pockets in the inside of her coat. One of them got a clean swipe at her face, where she knew she'd be black and blue later, and then dropped her to the ground. Still then pinned her, hoping for something else. She had had enough; all she cared now was for her own safety. She bit the hand in her mouth and screamed for all her might, hoping someone would hear her.

"Eh, boss?"

"Wot, Frank?" 

"'E screams like a girl." The man tried to repress Elizabeth's kicking attempts to free herself. 

"Yeah, 'e does." 

Elizabeth had stopped kicking, she was in more trouble now, if they found out. _Oh gods_, she left out a terrified squeak of air. Elizabeth shivered as the man reached out to her face, brushing aside a lock of hair to reveal the bruise that had enveloped half her face. Elizabeth flinched away.

"Let's see if ye right Frank." 

Before Elizabeth could do anything, the man had pulled at her vest and shirt.

"Look at wot we've got 'ere." 

Elizabeth lay curled in the hay for so long, she'd even forgotten herself there in all her tears. And when she went to stand, all the parts of her body seemed to ache. Her face was stained and chapped with tears, and when she finally got to her feet, she was wobbily, and wanted to cry again. Gathering her jacket around her loose clothes and making sure the rogues were gone, she put one foot in front of the other walking towards the Inn. She didn't know how she did it but she made it up to her room and, using the last of her energy, closed the door and flopped face down on the bed. 

"Oliver, Oliver!" Miss Jeanne's voice pierced through Elizabeth's muddled brain. 

She opened her eyes immediately closing them as the sharp pains of light hit them. Miss Jeanne shook Elizzabeth's shoulder. All Elizabth could manage was a groan. 

"Come one, you're gonna miss the coach!" Miss Jeanne turned her over and Elizabeth batted her hands away and curled back up in a ball, trying to bury herself in the quilt bedspread. 

"All right if youse ain't getting up, then 'tis yer own fault. Don't come yellin at me, 'Miss Jeanne, Miss Jeanne, the coach left and you didn' wake me.' " Miss Jeanne took another quilt from the chair, covered Elizabeth with the it, and left. 

When Elizabeth finally awoke, it was near noon and the coach had _indeed_ left. Left along time ago by the looks of it. Elizabeth was stuck, stuck with no money, out in the middle of nowhere, until the next coach came. 

But how I don't have any money and I wont_ beg! _Wont_ beg...but how. Oh dear...I am in for it now. Curse it all. _

She threw her face in the pillows and cried and cried and cried. At last when she was done, she walked down the stairs into the inn's main room. Miss Jeanne sat there, her tight strawberry blonde curls lifted away from her face by her hairpin. She was looking at the books.

"Well, so lookie 'ere, Mista High and Mighty finally decided ta wake up." She didn't even look up. 

"Yes," was all Elizabeth could say, pushing her hair in front of her face to cover the bruise. 

"Youse missed the coach, but there'll be another tommorrow." 

"Oh." 

"Wot's your problem?" Miss Jeanne looked up this time. 

"Nothing." Elizabeth replied flatly, it was all she could do to keep her ruse up and not blow it and break down. 

She hurt all over, even in places she didn't even know could hurt. Her face was pounding with a headache and so was her bad wrist. Miss Jeanne just shook her head and went back to her books. 

"If yure hungry there's some soup and bread in the kitchen." 

Elizabeth nodded in thanks and headed towards the kitchen. She found the bowl of soup and bread and sat down in the seat she had the night before. Could she afford to ask Miss Jeanne for some help, such as a place to work until she had enough for the coach fare? It was worth a try, but before she could ask, the large woman had planted herself in a chair looking right into her. 

"Wot happen? They beat you around." It was more of a statement than a question.

Elizabeth nodded, as Miss Jeanne motherly smoothed her blonde hair out of her face, and touched the moteled black and purple bruise that stretched from her left eyebrow to right jaw. 

"Poor you. Now youse sit 'ere, an' I'll get you som ice." 

Miss Jeanne was gone and back with ice wrapped in a towl, and she placed it against the swelling. Elizabeth flinched and her skin flamed and she placed her hand up against the pack, as Miss Jeanne took it away. Elizabeth finally had a chance to ask Miss Jeanne about work, as she sat back down at her books. 

"Miss Jeanne," her voice sounded abnormally high even for herself and it cracked in the wrong spot. 

The heat was near sweltering in her presend condition. Elizabeth swallowed, getting sweaty palms with her rising uncomfortability. 

"Wot Oliver?" Miss Jeanne looked back looking very concered. 

"Miss Jeanne, I was wondering if you could tell me where I can get work...ye see I don't have any more money for my fare and I need to get to London. And I won't take no money out of sympathy." Elizabeth finished, knowing she sounded plantive and more like a girl than ever. 

"I'sa see, well if you wont take money from me Oliver, then I do have a friend in Portsmouth." 

Portsmouth was at least two days by coach, that meant if she walked it would be about a week this ruse was getting out of hand, a few days, became a week, that now became a month or so. Well, in Portsmouth Miss Jeanne had a friend. It would be much easier to take from money from her, but she was too kind and Elizabeth couldn't bring herself to ask for it. 

"Go on..." Elizabeth looked up, wincing as she pressed the wrong place, and her bruise racketed with icey pain. 

"Well, if youse willing ta work fer a merchant marine, I'll give you 'is name and where you can find 'im." 

"Right." Elizabeth nodded. 

"Well, Mr. Remius Crawford, and youse can find 'im en Portsmouth Docks under th' sign _Merchant Marine_," she was writing something with her quill and then passed it to Elizabeth's good hand, "and 'ere's a letter of _intro_duction."

"Thank you so much Miss Jeanne," Elizabeth was on the verge of tears, wanting to thank Miss Jeanne a thousand times over that minute. 

"Don't mention it, just come back in one piece, ye 'ere?" Miss Jeanne smiled.

Elizabeth smiled. She actually smiled. 

Maybe this wasn't so hard. Ah, Viola, you were right; two days and I'm already used to it. 

Miss Jeanne gave her a knowing look, "Well, off youse go, it's a long way." 

"Thank you again, Miss Jeanne," she blushed prettily at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth tucked the letter into her jacket and went uptairs to get her things. When she came back down, she had her things and was ready to leave. 

"Come 'ere, you brat." Miss Heanne called with open arms and Elizabeth ran to her and hugged her. She buried herself in the womans side. Before she let the tears flow from either of them, she ran from the _Wastrel_, blinded by her own. Elizabeth ran, ran so fast she covered a full half hour without knowing she had drenched her face. Elizabeth wiped her face on her sleeve and continued on. 

By nightfall, she found a nice climbing tree with large branches. She climbed it. And wrapping herself in her coat, she fellinto a deep slumber.


End file.
